What Happens After

by Dennis Abrams

  “But I can now.”

  That only made me cry harder. I hated crying in front of Josh. I hated becoming that crying fag I never wanted to be. I hated that I couldn’t stop crying.

  And I couldn’t stop thinking that all this might be too much for Josh to take. Or want to deal with.

  “I’m sorry, Josh,” I told him as I started to get control of myself. “I’m just sorry.”

  “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. Don’t say that to me; don’t even think it. I’m not perfect, far from it. I’ve been hiding stuff from you too. Lots of it. Really awful things. I bite my nails when I’m nervous. I fart way too much. I hate sharing my food with anyone; it gives me the creeps. I’ve never watched Game of Thrones and don’t care if I ever do. I think pineapple on pizza is the invention of the devil. I need absolute quiet when I’m writing or reading and yell at anyone who interrupts me while I’m doing either.

  “I have serious issues with foot odor. Oh, and apparently I snore. Loudly.”

  At which point, I laughed, hard. And a part of me decided to fall in love with Josh for making me laugh exactly when I needed to the most.

  And because I also hate pineapple on pizza.

  And maybe because I finally noticed he was only wearing gym shorts and he was looking seriously hot.

  And when I laughed, he did as well, along with a look of relief. And he smiled, oh so crookedly.

  We talked for hours about things that mattered and things that didn’t although they all seemed to matter very much.

  We made plans for me to go up and visit him at school. I’d tell Mom and Dad I was going to check out the campus.

  Whatever.

  When we logged off, it was almost morning. I fell into a deep, almost nightmare-free sleep.

  I woke up smiling.

  And I liked it.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I WAS actually smiling a lot more often.

  People noticed. Laura did. So did the kids in my class. So did my teachers. And my parents.

  Even Clark seemed to notice. Although that might be pushing it a bit.

  Of course, not all the time. School was stressing me out. Waiting for college acceptance letters was stressing me out.

  And what happened that night was always there, waiting to stress me out at any time.

  I could be reading. I could be studying. I could be watching TV. I could be falling asleep. Especially just falling asleep.

  And it would suddenly hit me.

  That night at Pacific Coast.

  The images, the sounds, the memories would flood in. Mom and Dad and Ziggy—Ziggy and I still hung out a few afternoons a week—could always tell when I’m “there” by the faraway look I got in my eyes. They’d know I wasn’t there but I was there, and while I seemed to be going there less often, my time there was growing more intense.

  It was the suddenness that was the worst, the fear that it could happen at any time. Knowing that at any time, for whatever reason or for no reason at all, I’d be back there.

  And as much as I resisted it, it kept happening.

  It was as though the darkness inside me was growing in intensity as my happiness with Josh grew. And we were, I have to say, doing great.

  We texted several times a day, and skyped almost every night.

  It felt like he was always with me, somehow, and so when I went there, to that place, I could bring myself back, most times, by thinking about Josh.

  How he made me laugh. The intensity of his gaze. How excited he got when he first came online and saw me. How serious he got when he was talking about what he wanted to do with his journalism degree, and how proud he seemed to be of my plans to do something like social work or political or rights activist.

  How we’d be working for the same thing in our own ways.

  How unbelievable it was that someone as hot as him would be interested in me.

  Things were good. So good that I actually told my parents about him.

  I figured it was a way to keep them from worrying about me quite so much.

  Not that they hadn’t known. They’d seen us talking in Colorado. They knew I was skyping with him nightly.

  And they saw how much happier I seemed. Most of the time, anyway.

  So when they asked me about him, I told them. Not everything of course. But enough of the right things to let them know he could be trusted, that he was a good guy.

  And even more importantly to them, good for me.

  Since things were going well with them, I thought I’d take a chance and be totally open and honest about our plans.

  It was, I guess, a way of talking to them about myself without talking about what happened. To show them that things were getting better. And, I confess, a way of testing them to see if they were as liberal as they claimed to be.

  “You know I’m going up to Dallas to check out one more school…. Would it be okay if… I went by myself and stayed with Josh?”

  They looked at each other and I thought they’d give me the standard “We’ll see, give us time to talk about it” speech, but Mom jumped in.

  “Of course,” she said. Dad nodded in agreement.

  “But please don’t go around telling anyone else about this. People think I’m weird already, and I don’t need to become known in the neighborhood as that mom who lets her underage son go spend the weekend with his older boyfriend, or your almost boyfriend or whatever it is you are calling him.

  “I’m telling you this so you’ll understand why I’m letting you do this. What kind of mom would I be, given everything that you’ve gone through, not to let you go? You seem so much happier since you met Josh. You deserve this and I think you need it.”

  I wanted to run and hug her immediately, but held off for a moment before giving in and hugging her tight. “Thanks, Mom,” I said.

  “Just be careful,” she said. “And safe.”

  Dad nodded again.

  As I went upstairs, I could hear Mom telling Dad, “And I’m going to sneak a box of condoms into his bag, to make sure he’s safe.”

  I’d go up to Dallas in three weeks. But before then I had something big to prepare for.

  There was going to be an unveiling of a plaque on the front of the building where the shooting had happened.

  It was still closed and last I’d heard was going to be converted into a craft beer pub.

  The mayor was going to be there, along with TV and newspaper people. All of us who made it out were invited to be there, along with the families of those who didn’t.

  I felt like I needed to go. For Nate. And I guess for myself.

  Josh thought I should.

  And assuming Nate’s parents and Kristen would be there as well, I wanted to try and make things right with them.

  So I decided to write to them beforehand. An actual real handwritten letter.

  It seemed like that kind of occasion.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Jonson. And Kristen.

  I hope you all are doing well.

  Since I’m going to be at the plaque ceremony in a couple of weeks, and I hope you’re going to be there as well, I thought I’d write you this letter to hopefully clear the air between us.

  First of all and most importantly, you need to know that I’m sorry about so many things.

  I hope you know how sorry I am about Nate. He was my best friend, and I would never ever have intentionally hurt him or done anything with him that I thought would be bad for him. Ever. What happened just… happened.

  I’m sorry that I pushed him to go into Houston with me. We’d talked about it, and I knew he wanted to go check it out for himself, but he was a little scared and nervous about it. Would he have come if I hadn’t pushed him? I’m pretty sure he would have, that his curiosity and wanting to see it would have won out over his hesitance. I didn’t exactly have to twist his arm, but he did need my encouragement.

  Would he have come with me if I hadn’t done so? Probably. If I was g
oing, he wasn’t going to be left behind. You know he never wanted to be left behind.

  But it’s something I think about and worry about a lot. And I’ll never really know for sure.

  I’m sorry about getting the IDs that let us get into the club in the first place. That’s on me, for sure.

  If I could go back to that night and stop Nate from coming with me, if I could go back and tell him that if he’s not ready to go and that he shouldn’t, I would.

  I know this probably doesn’t mean much to you and doesn’t help much, but I’ll live with what happened to Nate for the rest of my life.

  I hope you know that.

  I also hope you know what an amazing kid you had. So smart. So funny. Such a good, good friend. I know for sure that whatever he would have ended up doing with his life that he would have made you proud.

  That’s one thing I know for sure.

  And speaking of proud, you need to know, even if it makes you uncomfortable, that Nate, even if he wasn’t ready to talk about it publicly or to come out to you, was proud of being gay. He was happy with who he was and felt comfortable in his own skin.

  At least most of the time.

  The only thing that he wasn’t sure about was how others would react. You all, in particular. He loved you very much, and he didn’t want to hurt you or cause you any pain by coming out to you.

  I know that might sound bad, but it wasn’t meant to be. He would have come out to you in his own time. When he was ready to.

  I know that for sure too.

  And deep down he knew that you’d still love him and that you did love him. I promise you that.

  But I do want you to know that, despite what you might think or even want to think, I didn’t turn Nate gay. It doesn’t work like that.

  He came that way.

  And he knew he was gay way before I arrived on the scene.

  Of course he knew. We almost always know.

  But please believe me also when I say he wasn’t my boyfriend. He was my friend. My best friend. My brother. Period.

  We never even fooled around. Not even close. It wasn’t like that between us.

  It would have been too weird. Even in fantasies.

  Of course we talked about sex. Why wouldn’t we?

  That’s because we were friends.

  But the fact is, at least as far as I knew, and I think he would have told me about this, he never had fooled around with anyone. He wanted to be in love, to fall in love before ever doing that with someone.

  And there’s one last thing I think you should know. That I want you to know. That I need for you to know.

  About what happened that night.

  He wasn’t in pain. He didn’t seem to suffer. Or if he did, he didn’t let on that he did.

  But he did think he was going to die. And that scared him.

  But he wasn’t alone. Not for a minute. I swear to you.

  When it happened he went down quickly. So damn quickly.

  I made my way over to him and held his hand. He asked if I’d stay with him, and I promised him I would.

  And I did. I held his hand and told him help was on its way and that he’d be okay. I squeezed his hand and stayed with him and didn’t leave.

  He died with me holding his hand and telling him how much he was loved.

  There’s not a day or really an hour that doesn’t go by without me thinking about him.

  I hope that helps.

  All the best,

  Collin

  I signed it and folded it and put it in an envelope, asked Mom for a stamp, and left it outside clipped onto the mailbox. Probably the first real letter I’d ever written.

  A couple of hours later, the mailperson picked it up and stuffed it in her bag. All I could do now was hope for the best.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  TWO WEEKS later I went to the unveiling. Mom and Dad insisted on coming with me to honor Nate and the others, so there we were.

  I hadn’t heard from Nate’s parents.

  Not a single word.

  But then what could they have to say?

  Except for a few doctor’s appointments, it was my first trip to Houston since it happened.

  The block looked all too familiar, and I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to handle it, but since it wasn’t about me, but about Nate and for Nate and all the others, I managed to hold it together.

  At least at the start.

  There were a lot of people there, far more than I thought there would be. I thought I recognized a few people from that night, and we simply nodded at one another in recognition and acknowledgment that we’d been there and survived. To do more would be to bring too much of it back.

  So the atmosphere was strained and weird.

  Music, mostly dance tunes and house music and the like, was playing from the former Pacific Coast; its interior had been ripped out and construction was already underway.

  As we looked around to find a good place to stand with the other “survivors”—including some still in their wheelchairs, some on crutches, others with scars, both physical and painfully clear emotional ones, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  I turned. It was Nate’s family.

  Kristen approached first. Aside from at the assembly, I hadn’t seen her since before it happened. She hugged me for a very long time and whispered a thank-you in my ear. Whether it was for the letter or for taking the blame for the IDs, or just for being there, I’m not sure.

  And to be honest it really didn’t matter.

  Mr. Jonson approached next. He stuck out his hand for me to shake. His grip was strong, and he held it, looking at me, not saying a word. Which was fine—I didn’t know what to say either. He gave my mom a hug and kiss on the cheek; he and Dad shook hands.

  Kristen waved hello to both of them.

  Mrs. Jonson was not there.

  “Um… where’s…,” I started to ask. But Kristen cut me off.

  “She wouldn’t come. Or couldn’t come, I’m not sure which,” she said. “Maybe both. We tried. I tried. Dad tried. But she just can’t… couldn’t… won’t face being here.

  “It’s not you, Collin,” she said, seeing the look on my face. “But… I’ll be honest with you… it is you. And all these other people here. Mom… well, she’s still struggling. That damn church… she’s so brainwashed….”

  “Kristen!” her dad said.

  “You know I’m right. Me and Dad know she loved him. That she still loves him. She prays for him. She cries for him. She blames herself. She blames you. She blames the culture and the gays and a lack of God and everything under the sun for Nate’s death, and she can’t or won’t let it go.”

  Mr. Jonson, giving Kristen a “why are you telling these people this” look, jumped in, feeling obligated, I’m guessing, to defend his wife.

  “She’s a good woman, Collin. We’re not saying that. She’s a good wife and a good mother. And she did love Nate, despite…. But she’s trying. She’s gone through life with definite ideas of right and wrong, and a total unquestioning certainty that God would keep her and everyone she loves safe. But with Nate’s death… she’s not that sure anymore. She’s lost that certainty. So she lashes out at me and Kristen and you and other gay people, otherwise….”

  I got it. And listening to them, I realized she was hurting in ways I couldn’t imagine. My wounds would heal. But for her, it wasn’t just her hatred of anything gay, it was the fact that everything she’d ever believed in for her entire life was now uncertain.

  That kind of pain, I couldn’t fathom. I just couldn’t wrap my head around.

  “I wish Nate’s mother had decided to come with us today,” he told me. “I think it might have done her some good. Given her a sense of ‘closure’ as they say. I’m not sure if I buy into that concept, but I still think it might have helped.”

  I shoved that aside for the moment; the ceremony was about to begin.

  Mom and Dad and I started to walk away from Mr. Jonson and Kristen,
not sure if they wanted us with them….

  Mr. Jonson, though, insisted that we stay. “Please,” he said, “we should do this together.”

  So we stayed. It seemed like the right thing to do.

  A couple of ministers spoke. And then the guy who had owned Pacific Coast, who kept saying how sorry he was before breaking down and having to walk away.

  And then the mayor spoke.

  He gave the usual speech about the tragic loss of life among those so young. He spoke about how what happened doesn’t represent what Houston is. He talked about how hate can’t and won’t win over love.

  I’m guessing it’s pretty much the same speech he gives after any shooting, or after any tragedy.

  Just change the names and the circumstances and be done with it.

  More thoughts and prayers.

  I kind of stopped listening while trying to think about Nate, to focus on Nate and honor him by standing strong for him.

  From the crowd I got a brief whiff of someone’s cologne, a scent that brought me back to that night.

  My head swam.

  But then came the calling out of the names of those killed.

  And my heart broke all over again.

  Brian Wilson, 37

  Lisa Martinez, 25, and her girlfriend, Maria Yan, 24

  Paul Greene, 20

  YoYo Johnson, 21

  Michael Dillon and his husband, Martin Dillon, both 23

  Jennifer Steinman, 22

  Freddie Washington, 30

  Angela Lopez, 24, and her girlfriend, Camilla Reyes, 28

  Zeke Powell, 28, and his boyfriend, Cole Edwards, 20

  Nate Jonson, 17

  Melissa Fordham, 44, and her son, Mikey Fordham, 23

  Jason Menendez, 21, and his boyfriend, Miguel Ferraro, 22

  Lisa Tomlinson, 25, and her partner, Tayesha Washington, 24

  Elliot Chase, 30

  Kendrick Johnson, 28, and his partner, Michael Thomas, 30

  Miguel Ortega, 28